


gold

by zerotolerancezone



Category: Red Letter Media, half in the bag - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 09:08:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16343924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zerotolerancezone/pseuds/zerotolerancezone
Summary: Mike shifts to put his head heavily in Jay’s lap, obviously drunk.“My fault ain’t givin’ you gloves.”“That didn’t make any fucking sense.”He snorts, laughs bubbling out of him despite himself.





	gold

**Author's Note:**

> i know. i know dude. isnt this a damn wild thing to do. uh i just really wanted something sappy because mike is funny and always moving around and always just a little bit soft and sleepy And I Have A Crush On Weird Old Men

Mike is sweeter than he means to be, most of the time; he’s still him, a little too sharp if he thinks he’ll get a laugh, but he gives those little smiles that he does and still lets Jay bum cigarettes sometimes, too. He smells like beer and stale smoke, shooing Jay into his apartment hurriedly, huffing with laughter when Jay starts to stumble.

“Don’t fall, that’ll completely--”

“I’m not!” Jay snickers, his hands feeling at the wall for the lightswitch, blinking hard when Mike finds it first. His head is spinning, his face comfortably flushed.

“That would completely ruin my point,” he tuts, very soberly, locking his door behind them as Jay kicks his shoes off.

The apartment is a studio and it’s a piece of shit- drafty, run down, and taken over almost entirely by the fold-out couch littered with candy wrappers and half-empty bags of chips. Jay had slept at Mike’s the night prior and they’d passed out too late to even pretend to care about the mess. Jay had managed to push a few empty bottles to the ground before he fell asleep, but the bed was still overridden.

Mike turns on the TV as he passed by it, an infomercial crackling into life. Jay snorts, quoting along in his head with the familiarly mechanical monologue hocking a weird new way to fry food. He sits onto the creaking mattress, listening to Mike get beer from the fridge.

“Turn that shit down,” he huffs as he joins Jay on the bed, throwing his overlarge jacket onto the arm of the couch. He gives Jay a cold bottle of one of his too-dark beers and pats the top of his red hair insistently. 

Jay waves him off and looks for the remote in order to turn that shit down.

Things are quiet, eventually. They’d had a long day, way too much of it spent doing garbage to keep Plinkett out of their goddamn hair. Jay regularly wondered if that was all worth it- it was far more work than fixing VCRs. 

The TV is a pacifying hum in the backdrop of their shared exhaustion. Sunset-gold light peeks through cracks in the blinds, over the valleys of the cheap, stained curtains. Jay can feel Mike reach for his hand, fumbling to lace their fingers together.

“Your hands are fucking freezing,” Mike sighs matter-of-factly, his eyebrows raised at Jay. This manages to earn a snicker, all warm and sunny, Jay pulling their entwined hands onto his thigh.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, his reluctant smile audible. “That’s your fault- you're the one who refrigerates your beer.”

Mike shifts to put his head heavily in Jay’s lap, obviously drunk. 

“My fault ain’t givin’ you gloves.”

“That didn’t make any fucking sense.” 

Mike snorts, laughs bubbling out of him despite himself, and he restlessly shifts to sit up. He takes another exaggeratedly long drink of beer where he sits beside Jay and then swallows too loudly. 

“I don’t have a problem,” he grins, and gives Jay a kiss on the cheek.

He settles back in and decides he’s comfortable for now. He puts his beer on the nightstand and holds Jay’s hand between his as he starts to read the old copy of a sci fi book he’d been sure to take over with him. Mike presses kisses onto his fingertips.

“I think you’re way softer than you think,” Jay hums flatly, wiggling his fingers in Mike’s hand. Mike grumbles vaguely and grips further up his forearm.

“Give you a love glove,” Mike says into his wrist, anticipatory in wait for Jay’s annoyed groan. “You know. Like a condom.”

“Yeah,” he replies sarcastically, begrudging himself for smiling the way he does. “Like a condom. Right.”

Mike laughs at him to shut up and lets his hand go, turning on his side, away from Jay.

The sun’s dipped under the horizon and the sky looks blue through the streetlamp outside Mike’s window. The air is still and peaceful, and Jay swears he’s been eating honey.


End file.
